


the gift you are

by alwayssomethingelse



Category: Holby City
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Fluff, Gift Giving, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 21:42:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13726545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwayssomethingelse/pseuds/alwayssomethingelse
Summary: Just over a year of gift-giving between Serena and Bernie. Life is not all airport wine and cheap gold tissue paper.





	the gift you are

**Author's Note:**

> Mammothluv on Tumblr prompted, about a year and a half ago... "Berena headcanons related gifts they give each other for various occasions, please!" - And this is what came out in the past 24hrs, when I rediscovered the ask! Better late than never?

Well of course, there was the airport wine. Contrary to popular opinion, it wasn’t actually that cheap – have you been in an airport duty-free lately? – but nonetheless not up to the famous homemade Wolfe standard. Carefully rescued by Jason, and left meaningfully on the kitchen table (not for long, Serena took care of that) it was actually a Ukrainian speciality, went quite well with the next Friday night hotpot.

Bernie made up for it later with a small painting she’d bought straight from the artist, one particularly depressing day in Kiev when all she’d done was fantasise about Serena’s lips on hers, their bodies pressed tight. It’s quite simple, almost abstract, very suggestive. Serena hangs it in her bedroom, just above and to the left of her side of the bed. Lips curve into a smile every time it catches her eye.

Her first gift to Bernie is a phone case. One of those terribly durable ones that looks like you can throw out of an aeroplane at thirty thousand feet and run the army’s best tank over, and your phone will still look like new (she requests that Bernie does not test this theory, however) – mainly because this is the third phone Bernie has managed to smash in six weeks (the fourth got sent down the hospital laundry chute in her scrubs pocket, rescued only because Fletch knows the lad who works down there, and put in a call). She leaves it wordlessly on Bernie’s desk one morning, grins fondly at Bernie’s look of amused mock-offence.

Their first Christmas is a hard one. They know each other well enough to know the things neither needs nor wants, yet not quite well enough yet to have that “aha” moment of genius gift choice. Bernie picks out a beautiful turquoise and navy velvet devore scarf – it will go with Serena’s coat, she thinks – and an elegant pair of silver earrings with ruby drops. Serena, after at least two weeks of gifter’s block, runs out of the hospital on her stolen lunch break, comes back half an hour later looking smug. Two days later, under the sitting room Christmas Tree chez Campbell, lies a large squishy present, perfectly wrapped with two-tone bows (hand done) and a card inscribed ‘ _for Bernie – and for snuggling – much love, S’_.

Bernie unwraps it with pleasurable anticipation – when was the last time she opened a gift from Marcus with anything but trepidation as to how much he’d have missed the mark this time? Inside, a delightfully soft, large knit blanket, in cool pastel jades and turquoises – and a second card. Within, a gift voucher for a local National Trust cottage, Summerhouse, nestled away within a large estate, and a simple ‘weekend get-away for two?’ in Serena’s unmistakable cursive script. She smiles and blinks her response to Serena’s waiting eyes.

She doesn’t bring flowers to Serena for Ellie. Instead, Bernie cooks, organises, sorts, arranges, acts as intermediary, answers the phone, anticipates and silently does anything she can to make this one shade less of hell than it already is. Mutely, Serena thanks her – a nod here, a half twitch of her lips there.

It goes without saying that neither of them pay any heed to Valentines that year. Serena’s vision is black and white, the colour of shop windows muted into gray. She doesn’t even realise what the date is till she’s tossing and turning that night, trying to both find oblivion and fight the dreams that will persist. There is nothing Bernie can think of that would be in any way appropriate, although she does get a decent print made of a photo Cameron sent her from Christmas evening – she and Serena relaxed on the sofa, her arm draped around Serena’s shoulders, both with a glass of wine in hand, and Elinor and Jason perching, one a piece, on the sofa arms either side. She presses it into a book Serena gave her on old year’s night – how far away that seems now – The Power Book by Jeanette Winterson.

When Serena comes back to work, Bernie takes to leaving little gifts daily; a croissant and some steaming hot coffee; a carefully put together lunch box from the deli down the road; a cupcake and a mug of tea one afternoon when they’re both fading and uncertain. Sometimes Serena accepts them, silently. Sometimes Bernie finds the pastry in the office bin later.

When Serena leaves, Bernie doesn’t know what to give her, till she gets home and spots the photo that sits beside her unmade bed, taken on Christmas Eve. Bernie had snuck up behind Serena, surprised her with a hug and a kiss to her ear, not realising Morven was standing nearby. It was only an iPhone photo, but nonetheless. Hurriedly, she picks it up, simple frame and all, and drives back round to Serena’s. Doesn’t want to disturb her, so wraps it in a plastic bag, writes ‘ _SERENA’_ in marker, and leaves it on the doorstep. The next morning, a text arrives while she’s in theatre. ‘ _Thank you. X_ ’

Packed in with that Olive Oil is a small package wrapped in cheap gold tissue paper, marked simply ‘ _B_ ’. Bernie pockets it, intending to open it when she has a moment to herself. Later, as everything they had built together falls around her, she makes her way slowly back to the office. Sits heavily and stares at Serena’s empty chair, remembers the gift, and unwraps it. Inside she finds a small wooden box carved with the name ‘ _Vienne_ ’, a little metal handle sticking out. In the peace and quiet of their office (even if she now shares it with Ric, it is their office) she winds the handle and from the box chimes out Pachelbel’s Canon – the one classical piece she’d been able to name off the top of her head the first time they’d discussed music. (Serena had laughed, told her she needed educating.)

Bernie blinks back tears that will come. Bites her lip. Lifts her phone, types out a text. Deletes. Re-types. Deletes. Puts the phone back in her pocket. Takes it out. Re-types. Presses send before she can stop herself. Two minutes later her pocket vibrates. ‘ _(45.791429, 5.821152) x_ ’ is all it reads, but Bernie finds herself smiling now.

A week later she arrives at Culoz train station, gives the address Serena had later furnished her with to a taxi driver and sits fidgeting in the back seat. It’s only a few miles away, but the nearer they get, the nervier Bernie feels. She’s dropped off at a smart looking villa backing on to Lac de Bourget; pays the driver with fumbling hands, and finds herself standing in front of the door alongside her old military rucksack. She digs in the main body of it and pulls out a large jar of marmite, carefully wrapped in a jumper – stuffs the latter back in, and rings the bell.

Within moments, a door slams somewhere in the house and through sandblasted glass she can see a blurry shape running towards her. Then the door is open, and Serena is standing in front of her, breathless, eager and nervous at the same time; hands reaching out tentatively.

“Bernie.” The one word itself is a kiss, sighed out with a delight that she hasn’t heard in Serena’s voice for months. Wordlessly – she doesn’t trust herself to speak - Bernie holds out the jar.

Serena gurgles. “It’s a long way to travel just to deliver a home comfort. How about you come in?”

The initial weeks in France are full of little gifts. Serena starts it – perhaps in some way trying to atone for something she can’t put into words. Not that she needs to, as far as Bernie is concerned. It’s never anything useless – often times something edible, and failing that, some odd thing Serena has noticed Bernie has come away without. A swimsuit, so they can bathe in the lake together; a hairbrush, because yes, she had forgotten her own and had been using Serena’s; a small box of artisan chocolates, left on Bernie’s pillow one afternoon.

But Bernie has a few treats up her own sleeve as well. Not just the marmite (she’d brought a second jar) – she’d remembered Serena’s love for Gentleman’s Relish, and had brought a tub of that, as well as some proper digestives. And then there was the photo of themselves, Elinor and Jason. One day out visiting a small country market, she finds the perfect frame for it, and that evening, as they come in from a stroll by the lakeside in the gathering dusk, she offers it. Serena doesn’t say much, but smiles – a genuine Serena smile that meets her eyes – and nods, swallowing hard. Later that night, having placed it beside her bed, beside the snap Bernie had sent away with her, Serena snuggles into her neck and whispers her appreciation.

Then the time comes for Bernie to head to South Sudan. Serena has decided that she doesn’t want to stay in France after all. She wants to visit Italy, then head to India. They do Venice, Florence and Rome together, and part ways in the airport. Bernie’s flight is first, and as the final call is made, Serena presses a package into her hand.

“Save it till later.” She murmurs, pulling Bernie close, kissing her one last time, lips and tongue rich with the coffee and chocolate they’ve just shared.

Bernie opens it as the flight takes off into the night, stifles a gasp as Serena’s pendant falls into her hand. A small note enclosed simply reads ‘ _I love you_ ’. She lightly thumbs the delicate metal before fastening it round her neck. Sends a selfie wearing it when she has wifi on her stopover in Khartoum, with ‘ _I love you too_ ’.

Their presents become more ethereal over the following months. Skype calls over dodgy wifi, of views from Serena’s travels; of a sunrise Bernie catches in her enclosure before heading out to the camp hospital; of a family she becomes friendly with after saving their youngest from a gangrenous wound. Serena volunteers for a few weeks in a hospital up in the Nilgiri hills, sends a mix of views from the hospital, and snapshots of the woefully lacking facilities. Then she travels to Nepal for a month, and Bernie finds this the hardest – no texts, no skype, no regular updates that had become gift in and of themselves. The two letters Serena sends, full of a calm befitting her name, become so precious that Bernie sleeps with them under her pillow, fingers stroking the handmade paper as she falls asleep.

Bernie begins to realise that it’s not the army she wants after all, even without being on the front line. She’s never gladder when a crackly phone call comes through from Serena in Lhasa.

“Are you due some leave? I thought we could meet half-way…”

Half-way ends up being Mumbai, and the urban chaos brings a different sort of life to Bernie. She sees the need of the city’s slums, and catches Serena watching her, calculating.

The Nairobi plan falls into place with remarkably little conversation. It’s as if Serena just knows, and as soon as Bernie says the words, she does too. This is it, this is what I…we…have to do next. She has the contacts; a Sister of Mercy nun she’d become friendly with in South Sudan had mentioned the need for trauma care in Nairobi’s Kibera slum, had indicated that some of her community would be delighted to assist in the setting up such a unit.

Then Hanssen’s call comes, and Bernie tells Serena to go, despite how heart sore it leaves her. Knows in her heart that it will be more than just a few weeks. It’s the right thing to do, and she would never stop her, but when they part at the airport, Bernie holds Serena with a lingering tightness, before letting go and digging a small velvet pouch out of her bag.

“This…this was my Grandmother’s. She gave it to me for my twenty-first birthday, told me my Grandfather had given it to her when he’d been sent to Passchendaele, as a sign he’d come home to her.”

“And did he?” Serena tilts Bernie’s chin till their eyes meet.

“He did… He died before I was born, but he did survive the war.” Bernie smiles.

Serena opens the bag to display a delicate art nouveau broach of two silver swans, beaks and breasts together, clutching a fiery opal between their webbed feet. “Oh Bernie, it’s beautiful.” She sighs. Then, “we will survive, darling. And it’s only a few weeks. But even if it wasn’t, we would survive.”

“I hope so.” Bernie whispers.

“I know so.”


End file.
